


Of Reaching and Trust

by boats_birds



Category: Kuroko no Basuke | Kuroko's Basketball
Genre: Confessions, Fluff and Angst, M/M, Post-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-09
Updated: 2018-07-09
Packaged: 2019-06-07 15:35:42
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,072
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15222293
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/boats_birds/pseuds/boats_birds
Summary: He’d never doubted Takao’s passes. Not since their first practice together. Not even for an instant.





	Of Reaching and Trust

**Author's Note:**

> Happy belated birthday to mine and Takao's favorite tsundere~ I wanted to finish this yesterday, but I forgot my mom was coming to visit! And I originally wanted to write something more festive, but this idea had been nagging at me for a few weeks, so I figured I'd go with it. May it rectify what Extra Game sullied.

Practice was just as grueling as it’d always been. 

Regardless that Midorima had just been in an important match against Jabberwock, Coach Nakatani didn’t take it easy on him. Even as he used his selfish requests (now cut down to merely two a day), the coach would find ways around it. Even compared to Teikou and their training last year, it felt particularly brutal. 

It was strange, Midorima thought, how much had changed when their third-years graduated. The whole team had to be changed, plays rethought and strengths reestablished and trust reformed. He expected it the moment he attended Shuutoku, but being the complete cornerstone for the team and having everyone depend on him until they sorted things was difficult. 

And yet, he mused as he shot from the half-court line, nothing had changed. From how Coach Nakatani ran them until it felt like they’d break. From how Takao still joined him for every after hours practice. From how Miyaji Yuuya threatened him with all kinds of bodily harm for bringing another gigantic tanuki and keeping it on the bench. 

Of course, their thirst for victory—clawing for wins like it was life and death because it  _was_ —hadn’t changed at all. 

Coach Nakatani had them running practice matches, one against the upperclassmen and one against the new freshman. He did this ever so often, to gauge where everyone stood, in case there needed to be a change in their usual lineup. They were just training, but Coach treated them each like they were deciding tournament games.

Their new team members seemed to hold a bit of promise.

In particular, a freshman power forward had spent the whole year proving he could be remarkably irritating. The fire in his eyes reminded Midorima of when he first played against Seirin. He couldn’t jump as high as Kagami Taiga, and he certainly wasn’t as powerful, but he was fast. By the time Midorima wound up to make his three-pointer, the boy was already on him.

He glanced at Takao from the corner of his eye. As he always did, Takao noticed and paused a moment before nodding. Later, Midorima would think it was strange for Takao to hesitate.

Stepping back from the freshman, he jumped, already in shooting position. The ball entered his hands at the last possible second. He shot it, to the newcomers’ wide eyes and dropped jaws. As he watched it soar over the heads of his teammates, he knew, and his own eyes went wide in realization.

The ball hit the rim. Slowly circled around and around. Then finally fell through the net.

“…Holy shit. Did Midorima almost miss?”

“No way. Midorima doesn’t miss.”

“But I’ve never seen one of his shots do that. Not outside of a serious match.”

Commotion stirred all around them, loud and busy. Even the members who had just started this year tossed him strange looks, because they knew this wasn’t according to plan. A few even gave a skeptical glance to his lucky item, a large stuffed bear, sitting on the bench.

Coach clapped his hands. “That’s enough. Get ready to restart instead of talking.”

Midorima stared at the hoop like it personally offended him. That pass had a much lower accuracy than his normal shots, he knew that. But even taking that into consideration, it was still way off course and not within the regular margin of error.

He gave Takao a look as their teammates ran past them to their proper positions.

Takao always smiled from the inside out. Pure mischief and sunshine. Often times they were as infuriating as they were captivating, lighting up his eyes into dancing shades of slate blue. As much as it pained him to admit, Midorima liked those smiles. They suited Takao.

This wasn’t one of those smiles.

“Sorry, Shin-chan!” His grin didn’t come close to reaching his eyes. “Won’t happen again!”

Rooted in place, Midorima carefully watched Takao take off to the other end of the court.

Discomfort swirled in his stomach hatefully. He wanted to use a selfish request and ask for a timeout, just to get his bearings and maybe ask Takao what was wrong. He wanted Takao to pass to him again and his shot to sink into the net almost soundlessly. He wanted to get rid of this feeling more than anything.

But Midorima was bad with words, and so he jogged after Takao, staring at the ‘10’ on his back.

 

* * *

 

Just as Takao said, it didn’t happen again.

Not during the following practice games. Not even the next couple of official matches. Not even when Midorima looked at him upfront.

Because he refused to make those passes.

Takao never said as much, but he didn’t need to say. It was in the way he played. He didn’t waver in passing to the rest of the team, effortlessly dodging past his mark and tossing the ball in those ridiculously incredible ways.

But he always hesitated when passing to Midorima now.

Not enough to really catch people’s attention, or enough to throw off their game. But it was enough that Midorima noticed, and it kept digging under his skin. His passes were still on the mark, as they always were, but there was always that second before it landed in his hands.

That second where it was like Takao didn’t want to pass to him.

On top of that, Takao had stopped staying after hours to practice with him most days. He’d toss an impractical excuse over his shoulder before taking off from the gym. The days he did get roped into staying, he never wanted to practice their pass, which was frustrating since Midorima was trying to use it with his right hand as well.

Midorima didn’t understand.

Practice was wrapping up as usual, some of the first years staying to keep practicing on half the court. It was just like any other afternoon, except when Midorima turned to find Takao, the point guard was already ducking into the locker rooms. He frowned when Takao came back out, already dressed to go home.

“Takao—”

“Sorry, Shin-chan!” he yelled, walking backwards out of the gym. “Gotta babysit tonight!”

Midorima wanted to comment about how Takao’s sister was old enough to watch herself. But he was stopped short by the look Takao gave him. Another smile that didn’t reach his eyes, dim and distant. Takao didn’t meet his stare, which was probably a good thing since Midorima didn’t know what kind of face he was making.

As the door shut behind Takao, Midorima grabbed a ball from the bin someone graciously pushed over and launched it into the hoop on the completely opposite side of the court. Again and again and again. Until sweat was dripping off him, his breaths were painful huffs, and his arms were trembling sore. Even after that, he kept shooting.

Midorima didn’t _understand_.

He tried to think if he’d said something in the past weeks. He knew he had a tendency to be “hilariously blunt” as Takao put it. But nothing came to mind that would throw Takao off this much. Taking things Midorima said in stride was Takao’s specialty.

Maybe he had done something instead. Accidentally shoved Takao, or took his lunch by accident, or bothered him with one of his lucky items. But again, nothing came to mind. Takao was more fascinated by his lucky items than anything, and _he_ was the one with the thieving hands when it came to the lunches Midorima’s mother packed for him.

So that left him with the option that made him grimace.

Takao doubted them. He didn’t believe they could make that pass. Whether it was because of his own abilities, or Takao’s own abilities, he didn’t know. Both choices made his fingers clench on the ball like steel rods, digging until his knuckled turned white.

He’d _never_ doubted Takao’s passes. Not since their first practice together. Not even for an _instant_.

Just the thought of Takao doubting him made the next ball go in with a loud bang off the rim.

“My brother was so right.”

The next ball slipped out of his startled hands as he spun around. Yuuya arched a brow at him, in the same way the elder Miyaji did whenever Midorima said something that irritated him. Even though he wasn’t nearly as intimidated by him, it still made Midorima shrink back. A little.

He pushed up his glasses. “…About what?”

“You two are annoying when you get along.” Yuuya picked up a ball and tossed it to him. Midorima had to take two steps and outstretch his arm to catch it. “But when you’re fighting, it’s ten times worse.”

Midorima didn’t have to ask who he was talking about.

“We are not fighting.”

“Could’ve fooled me.”

It could’ve fooled Midorima as well. He bit his tongue as he turned to his shooting again, tossing another in the net without a word. It hadn’t occurred much to him before, but they had to be fighting for them to be like this, didn’t they?

Yuuya sighed before walking over and pushed another ball into his chest. Midorima was taller than him, as he was all of his teammates, but the look Yuuya gave made him feel small. It was impatient and almost disappointed, but not unkind.

“Just try talking to him, alright?” he said, giving Midorima a parting smack on the back. “We all know you’re awkward as shit, so consider this your push.”

The door shut behind Yuuya, and it was only then Midorima noticed everyone else had left. Quiet and empty, the squeak of his shoes echoed in the gym. Normally it was filled with Takao’s loud voice, his obnoxious laughter, or his teasing backhanded compliments. As he lined up for his next shot, Midorima wondered when he had started to dislike the quiet.

His next shot went in softly.

Midorima was bad with words, but he had to do _something_ to get that look off Takao’s face.

 

* * *

 

Takao had already tried to duck away from their extra practice.

He hadn’t even tried an excuse this time, instead sneaking out the door when Midorima wasn’t looking. Except Midorima was keeping an eye on him specifically, and took off after him before the gym door had even shut all the way. He followed Takao across the courtyard, to the bicycle rack where their rickshaw was parked. Before Takao could jump on it and speed away, Midorima called out to him.

“Takao.”

“ _Holy fu—_ ” Takao jumped, nearly tripping over into the line of bikes. He spun around with a wild look in his eyes. Like he was cornered. “Shin-chan! Since when did you take lessons from Kuroko?!”

They stood beside the rickshaw, staring at each other. Midorima’s lucky cat statue was heavy, so he set it on the back. It was silent, the air heavy as each of them waited for the other to break the awkwardness. Midorima took a breath and remembered his push.

He scowled. “…What is wrong with you?”

“Heh?”

“You’ve been…strange.”

There was a quiet pause, before Takao burst out laughing. To anyone else, it would have been the same boisterous and ridiculous Takao as always. But Midorima knew better. He knew when Takao was laughing just to avoid talking about something, when he was trying to cover something up and bury it away.

Midorima growled without thinking. “ _Stop that_.”

“What do you mean, Shin-chan?” Takao still laughed.

“Stop smiling and laughing when you don’t mean it.”

Takao’s face fell. His grey eyes went wide, blinking up at Midorima in surprise. It only lasted a moment before he couldn’t meet Midorima’s gaze at all. The ground, the rickshaw, the sky—Takao’s eyes nervously went to each one, teeth worrying his bottom lip. It was a look so unlike Takao, it was disconcerting.

Until he finally sighed and collapsed beside the lucky cat.

“Yeah.” Kicking at the dirt, Takao gave him a small, sad smile. “Yeah, I know I’ve been weird lately.”

Midorima waited patiently while Takao gathered his thoughts. Eventually, Takao rested his arm on top of the statue and reclined back to the look at the light polluted sky. It took even longer for him to finally form words, which Midorima never thought would be a problem with Takao.

“It’s just—I mean…” Takao sighed, scratching at the back of his head. “I mean, I’m just feeling—I’m not as good as Akashi, you know.”

“Of course not,” Midorima answered without hesitation. “Akashi is most likely the best point guard in the country.”

Takao snorted. “I meant I’m not as good at passing to you. But thanks for the vote of confidence.”

If Midorima were a lesser person, he would have rolled his eyes. “That’s beyond ludicrous.”

“You don’t get it, Shin-chan.”

“No, Takao,” he cut in, sharp. Takao’s eyes went wide again. “You’re the one who doesn’t understand.”

Takao’s mouth snapped shut. Any other time, Midorima might take the time to bask in a Takao rendered speechless. But at the moment, he was more concerned in how to _make this infuriating man understand_. Words had never been his strong suit, particularly those about his emotions and personal matters.

But Takao deserved this. He deserved an explanation. So he started with his thoughts from the other day.

“I have never doubted you for a moment. Not in any sense. Not as a teammate, and not as a friend. I can’t say the same about Akashi.”

He didn’t know how to say it, and he choked on the words bubbling in his throat. He wanted to say that while Akashi was more like he used to be, he still wasn’t quite there yet. He wanted to say that Akashi treated him like a friend on good days, and a simple tool to be used on other days. He wanted to say that Takao wasn’t like Akashi, and that was a good thing.

He settled for, “You trust me.”

Because it was true. As much as Midorima trusted him to make those passes, to get the ball to him wherever he was on the court, Takao trusted him just as much to make the shot. That’s why they were such a compatible team. They had the talent to make it, and they had the trust to make it better.

Takao had taught him that. Shuutoku had taught him that.

Sometimes, he knew things needed to be said out loud. To avoid any confusion or misunderstandings. No matter how embarrassing or ridiculous it felt. His face felt flushed, his chest hot, as he fiddled with the bandages on his left hand.

“Regardless of what school I could attend, or who I could play with, I would still want to play with you.”

With a wide stare, Takao looked up at him in what he could only assume was misplaced wonder. He slowly stood up from the rickshaw, standing even with Midorima’s shoulders. Like they always had before, his eyes started sparkling like stardust and mercury. Awed.

“I never knew Shin-chan could be so sweet,” he said seriously.

“Quit being absurd.” He shoved at his glasses, hiding his red face behind the palm of his hand. “I’m merely stating facts.”

“You really don’t get it though, Shin-chan.”

At the affronted look Midorima gave him, Takao started laughing again. This time, it was a genuine, mirthful laugh that tumbled from him in waves. He wanted to be aggravated, but Midorima couldn’t help the tension that eased from his shoulders at the sound.

“I know I’ve been weird and distant, but it’s not like I’m giving up or admitting defeat.” Steely eyes looked up at Midorima, determined. “I’ve been trying to make my ball handling better. So I can pass better. You’re going to try shooting from the right next, aren’t you?”

He absolutely was. But he hadn’t told Takao about that plan yet. He first had to get better at using his right hand, so he’d been practicing eating, texting, and even writing with his weaker hand. Somehow, without ever talking about what their next step would be, they started down the same path together.

He’d been so _wrong_.

Takao never doubted him. Takao didn’t even really doubt himself. He simply wanted each of them to get stronger, so they wouldn’t lose next time, no matter who their opponent was.

“I was wanting to get better on my own,” Takao continued. “So I could help you more.”

That was the problem though. The thing that rubbed him the wrong way through this whole explanation. Midorima reached out and grabbed at Takao’s wrist, feeling a hard pulse against his bandaged fingertips.  

“There’s no need to get better on your own. Not since I’m here. Not without the team.”

Two years ago, he would have never dreamed of saying those words.

When Takao’s arm twitched in his hold, Midorima noticed how close they were standing. With a swallow, he tried to take a step back. Only for Takao to grab onto his sleeve in turn, holding him in place. They stared between each other, green on grey-blue, both colors muted in the dark.

Takao tipped closer to him. They were already so close. For a moment, Midorima’s heart raced at their proximity, and his lips tingled almost numb.

But Takao just knocked his forehead into Midorima’s chest with a chuckle.

They stood like that for so long, Midorima wasn’t sure if time was moving. He was absolutely still, spine ramrod straight and heart pounding against his sternum so hard, he was sure Takao could hear it. When Takao finally moved away, it still felt like it hadn’t been long enough.

“Since Shin-chan gave me such a heartfelt confession, it’s only fair that I pedal you home, right?”

Pushing those feelings aside for another time, Midorima reached out and snatched his lucky cat off the rickshaw with a scoff. Turning on his heel, he looked back at Takao over his shoulder. He could feel a smirk dancing on the edges of his mouth.

“Absolutely not.”

Takao gave a confused tilt of his head. “Huh?”

“We have a lot of missed practice to compensate for.”

Takao blinked up at him. Then he smiled from the inside out, a tiny sun revolving around Midorima’s orbit. Like mischief and sunshine. The kind that suited him.

“After you, Shin-chan.”

Midorima was still bad with words, so he smiled the same in return.


End file.
